The black bears of Maine are not the biggest bears in North America, nor are they the fiercest. But the people Down East claim they are the cleverest, certainly among the most curious, and always ready to try something new. Alphonse Beauchamps was an old Maine hunting and fishing guide who lived by himself in a cabin just north of Pocomoonshine Lake. He had spent nearly his entire life in the backwoods and knew bears better than anybody. Even so, he said, the bears could always surprise him.
“Why last winter it was so cold that one night three bears came right out of hibernation to stay in my cabin,” Alphonse was saying as he leaned on the counter of Bill McCreely’s Bait, Tackle, Post Office and General Store. Everybody dropped by McCreely’s on Saturday morning to pick up mail, buy fresh supplies, and swap stories.
Summer tourists from Boston liked McCreely’s too. There were plenty of them there that day, both ladies and gents, standing around in new rubber wading boots and white canvas hats. They stopped their chatter and started listening as soon as Alphonse said the word ‘bears.’
“Yes sir,” Alphonse continued. “I was just about to drift off to sleep, when the door began to rattle like it was about to bust off its hinges. Before I could reach for my gun, a big hairy paw poked in. I wasn’t about to face a bear alone in the middle of the night so I climbed up quick as I could onto the rafters of my cabin. Just in time, too. An instant later, a papa bear lumbered in followed by a mama bear with little baby bear cub at her heels.
"Well those bears settled down and made themselves right at home. The papa bear went straight to where I keep my fishing tackle. I could see him picking up poles and comparing the size of my hooks to the size of his claws. The mama bear made a beeline for my cooking equipment and began taking the lids off of pots, opening boxes and shaking my cans of soup and sardines.
"But that baby bear? He scooted out of sight and I couldn’t figure out what he was into. Rustle, rustle, I kept hearing. Rustle, rustle like the wind through a bunch of dried leaves. Finally, I leaned out from rafters as far as I could to get a good look at him. And what do you think he was doing?”
Everybody in the store was absolutely silent.
“He was perusing my Sears and Roebuck Catalog. That’s what he was doing.”
The tourists started to laugh.
Alphonse shook his head solemnly. “Sounds funny now, but it wasn’t at the time. The sun was coming up and I was tired of hanging onto the rafters. If fact, I was wondering how I might shoo them off, when the papa bear grunted to the other two and they got up to leave. They didn’t go away empty handed, though. Not those bears. The papa took one of my best fishing reels. Which didn’t surprise me. After all, if a bear can fish with his claws, he can fish with a hook. The mama walked off with a big box of salt. Which wasn’t surprising, either. Why shouldn’t bears like to season their fish same as we do? But that baby bear? He left carrying my Sears and Roebuck Catalog, just humming to himself, happy as could be. And that was a conundrum because what in the world can a bear do with a Sears and Roebuck Catalog?”
Again, no one had an answer.
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“Why last winter it was so cold that one night three bears came right out of hibernation to stay in my cabin,” Alphonse was saying as he leaned on the counter of Bill McCreely’s Bait, Tackle, Post Office and General Store. Everybody dropped by McCreely’s on Saturday morning to pick up mail, buy fresh supplies, and swap stories.
Summer tourists from Boston liked McCreely’s too. There were plenty of them there that day, both ladies and gents, standing around in new rubber wading boots and white canvas hats. They stopped their chatter and started listening as soon as Alphonse said the word ‘bears.’
“Yes sir,” Alphonse continued. “I was just about to drift off to sleep, when the door began to rattle like it was about to bust off its hinges. Before I could reach for my gun, a big hairy paw poked in. I wasn’t about to face a bear alone in the middle of the night so I climbed up quick as I could onto the rafters of my cabin. Just in time, too. An instant later, a papa bear lumbered in followed by a mama bear with little baby bear cub at her heels.
"Well those bears settled down and made themselves right at home. The papa bear went straight to where I keep my fishing tackle. I could see him picking up poles and comparing the size of my hooks to the size of his claws. The mama bear made a beeline for my cooking equipment and began taking the lids off of pots, opening boxes and shaking my cans of soup and sardines.
"But that baby bear? He scooted out of sight and I couldn’t figure out what he was into. Rustle, rustle, I kept hearing. Rustle, rustle like the wind through a bunch of dried leaves. Finally, I leaned out from rafters as far as I could to get a good look at him. And what do you think he was doing?”
Everybody in the store was absolutely silent.
“He was perusing my Sears and Roebuck Catalog. That’s what he was doing.”
The tourists started to laugh.
Alphonse shook his head solemnly. “Sounds funny now, but it wasn’t at the time. The sun was coming up and I was tired of hanging onto the rafters. If fact, I was wondering how I might shoo them off, when the papa bear grunted to the other two and they got up to leave. They didn’t go away empty handed, though. Not those bears. The papa took one of my best fishing reels. Which didn’t surprise me. After all, if a bear can fish with his claws, he can fish with a hook. The mama walked off with a big box of salt. Which wasn’t surprising, either. Why shouldn’t bears like to season their fish same as we do? But that baby bear? He left carrying my Sears and Roebuck Catalog, just humming to himself, happy as could be. And that was a conundrum because what in the world can a bear do with a Sears and Roebuck Catalog?”
Again, no one had an answer.
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